Hermes Kitap
"Dying / Is like an art, like everything else / I do it exceptionally well / I do it so it feels like hell." Lady Lazarus / Sylvia Plath

[Story]"Lady Lazarus" | Safa Fersal

Lady Lazarus | Güneş Bozkurt



to sylvia plath and nur saçbüker

The lightning had become the sword, begirded by fingers of the knight with ruby rings; the sea also knew its glitter.
and the sky was as if it was roaring after the smoke that a corvette's 24 cylinders sprayed with that wild sound.
it smelled soil, iodine and saltpeter everywhere, blackclouds had closed the eyes of the sun.
the rain tinkled on roof tiles; it washed branches of figs, plums and red pomegranates, it scattered grapes from their bunches.
the thunder had touched the last days of september on the spot and the dark had lost its balance.
maybe you are aware that the nature has a dictation, too… this, perhaps, can be understood from the idyll's array of verses…
because white foamed waves that provide the poem its rythym, so to say,
dance with the music of the wind.
it is the temper of the wine…
the weather had settled down, you came.
you kissed me with your rainy lips.
your beauty was naïve and stubborn; nipples of your little breasts had got wet.
they had leaped out as if drilling your shirt.
your ashgray eyes nurtured your tempting glance.
your skin was the shining color of last summer, it was a lively auburn tulip.
i kissed your neck, your earlobes; a few raindrops dripped my
back from your fly-away hair. you boasted about your femininity and you were right about it.
you were as if a faery who were growing roses in her womb.
hours later I said "welcome" to you.
when i woke up, you weren't near me. you had gone.
i got up. i watched the morning's sea amid yellow leaves of the fig.
it was covered with gray clouds and dead calm; the horizon line (it was drawn with a dark blue line miles away) was as if determining the borders of the world.
the poetic silence at the beginning of a poem.
the sea; that sea which foamed, blew about, scolded the rocks, it's now merciful.
with this serenity, it offers the fishermen their breads; its mossy bosom doesn't begrudge the school* from them.
the horizon is the pale line of those vague smiles spread
on your lips. it smiles only when it sees the sun and in the moonlight it laughs with phosphorescences.
seagulls that can be distinguished, resembling italic M and cries of the cormonants on the shore.
the last days of september look like the first days of may in here: the time when the nature is the most professional…
i read the poems you left on my desk, all were bad; but i always told you, a woman cannot be lady lazarus easily.
after her suicide,

"did mischievous
death fall in love with you?"

her husband, edward hughes wrote.
if you ask me lady, the world revolves only around your orbit.
for you had become the sun when you put on your yellow makeup.
your tears drowned your husband who is graded as a poet.
THE BELL JAR: your first and the last novel.
you'd find a lover and start smoking though.
you see you're not the minus one person. what you want is neither darkness
nor silence! you only couldn't be YOU, they didn't let you be.
carry on your path lady lazarus…
don't toss your fantasies out.
your perception is perfect, your dreams are connected to electricity: YOU'RE ON THE BORDER.
your foot prints are so apparent on the snow…
as for your blue eyes drop like avalanches with your cries of help.
you're alone again.
your poet has left you; yet wasn't poetry madness?
caress your hair break the mirrors, commend your children to moon the grandpa.
now you're alone in a hallway; following a beautiful dream, you tuck your children in.
you lived so short, really?
you lock yourself up into a room…
february 11, 1961.
"no exit" you say.
you're in a red coffin on the snow and the poem, which did wrong to you, takes its revenge from the life.
you didn't bury yourself into a death, that's a lie either!..
the poem wanted to drown you, birds abolished their nests…
ah sylvia…
from where to where, my darling…
this life isn't better than the poems you write but it is won.
next time, leave pink kisses to my heart,
i'll give them to lady lazarus when i die.

* Group of fish in marine terminology, t.n
» You can read the story in Turkish from

Translation published on 06/04/2009
Translated by
Tugce Aytes

Başa dön

The Bell Jar | Sylvia Plath
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